


Blue Moon

by nyoka



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-05
Updated: 2013-10-05
Packaged: 2017-12-28 12:38:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/992096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nyoka/pseuds/nyoka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Hello, Dean," Castiel says on a soft rumble, smiling himself when he adds, "You’re late."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blue Moon

**Author's Note:**

> For Bexy, who asked for Dean/Castiel & the blue plaid shirt. Originally posted [here](http://nyokala.tumblr.com/post/34122234437/blue-moon-dean-cas).

+

Dean slides his hand against the Impala, running his palm over the warm metal, feeling the last heated vibrations of his girl’s engine. He smiles. It’s been a long trip, and he’s happy to finally be in one place.

The sun has already dipped halfway down the horizon, darkness creeping into the sky. He picks up his duffle from the ground where he dropped it by the side of the car and heads inside the rental. The house is small, but inexpensive, a run-down 70’s craftsman bungalow tucked away in Belle Plains, Michigan, a small town a few miles east of the great lake. It’s furnished, and nestled beside a small forest, and Dean thinks it’ll make a decent home base for the next few months.

"It’s me," he calls, moving through the front door and into the living room, leaning down to drop his bags to the floor. There’s a paper bag on the small dining room table when he enters the kitchen, filled with what smells like Chinese takeout; there’s probably enough egg rolls to satisfy even Castiel’s addiction to them. There’s beer too, a six pack with a can already missing.

Dean looks around as he heads back into the living room. He eyes the sigils curling around the door frames, carved into the time-worn oak paneling. He hears the shower running, and he eyes the piles of familiar clothes on the threadbare couch. Castiel’s duffle is wide open and spilling out a mass of thrift-store apparel, and the few faded, ripped jeans and oversized t-shirts he inherited second-hand from Dean over the years.

There’s piles of musty books on the coffee table too, and a couple of half-empty coffee mugs filled with the green tea Cas has taken to drinking. The front windows sit low and long on the wall of the living room, covered by old lace curtains that reveal the tangled yard outside. Dean contemplates tackling the yard after dinner, but decides maybe that can wait for the weekend when he hears the shower turn off, the low moan of old pipes doing too much work. Something flips in his stomach, and he’s suddenly feeling nervous.

He pushes some of the clothes out of his way and settles down on the couch, sinking his tired limbs into the plush cushions and letting out a long, heavy sigh when he rests his head against the pillow. A moment later, he remembers to pull off his mud-caked boots and crusty socks, slipping his bare feet against the cool wood floor of the house, and groaning at the simple act of being still.

Dean’s halfway asleep when he feels the couch dip and a warmth press against his side. His eyes flutter open, and he turns his head, and damn, he can’t help but smile. “Cas,” he says, voice rough and low.

"Hello, Dean," Castiel says on a soft rumble, smiling himself when he adds, "You’re late."

"Shit, Cas, sorry about that," Dean yawns, sitting up and facing him, their knees bumping as he turns his body. "Sam wanted to make a few extra stops along the way, and it’s been a long time since we just hung out like that."

"How is Sam? And Amelia?" Castiel asks softly.

"Crazy in love with each other and that damn mutt, it’s sickeningly sweet," Dean laughs, shaking his head and looking at Cas fully for the first time in three weeks. His hair is wild and wet from the shower, waves of it starting to curl as it dries. Castiel’s chin is covered in a few-days’ worth of stubble, and Dean reaches out instinctively, letting his hand brush against the angel’s cheek, feeling the rough hair catch at his calloused fingertips.

"Hey," Dean says, looking down at the rest of Cas. The angel’s slipped on a pair of tattered sweats and a familiar plaid shirt, which is still unbuttoned, revealing the smooth lines of his chest. "Is that my shirt?"

Castiel looks guilty for a moment, hands coming up to settle on the shirt collar. “You left it here,” he says simply.

"Did I?" Dean asks, arching a brow and smiling.

It’s too warm for April, and the world’s been getting warmer every year, spring bringing buds as early as February, but Dean still finds it hard to get out of the habit of wearing layers. The blue plaid shirt he picked up on his return trip from Purgatory two years ago, well it always carried sentimental value, and he found himself slipping into it more often than not.

But seeing Cas in it now, Dean wonders why he never thought to give it to him after the angel made it back himself. It fits him properly, which is rare when it comes to Dean’s hand-me-downs. The deep blues and grays of the shirt match the tones in Castiel’s eyes, and Dean finds himself falling forward for that reason. Cas leans in without question, presses a soft sweep of his lips against the corner of Dean’s mouth. Whispers, “Welcome back.”

Dean smiles, content, and places his face down on Castiel’s shoulder before nuzzling into the smooth line of his neck, his hands wrapping around his old shirt and taking in the softness of the well-worn material. It’s been a month since Dean had this, and it feels too long, too much time missed. His and Castiel’s eyes catch, long and searching, and then they’re kissing, licking into each other’s wet mouths, reduced to open lips and teeth and tongues. Dean’s hands slide against Castiel’s waist, finding warm skin; Castiel’s fingers curl over Dean’s jaw, the long pads stroking tenderly as their bodies melt down into the couch.

Dean has to pull back for a minute, just to catch his breath. He looks down at Cas, the long, powerful stretch of him. The faded reds, whites, and blues of Dean’s old shirt seem to bleed into the colors of Castiel’s body, the white gleam of his neck, the pink spread of his chest, the soft blue of his eyes.

"You should steal more of my clothes," Dean laughs, voice rough.

"Duly noted," Cas smiles, reaching up a hand and pulling Dean back down, his grip on Dean’s shoulder matching the thrumming, heady need already setting fire to Dean’s body. He remembers what they almost lost back then, even if it feels so long ago now; the nightmares of what they went through together will always reside near, somewhere in the crazy history between them.

Eyes closed, Dean falls into the soft blue cocoon of Castiel’s arms. Later, when they’re naked and sated, tangled together on the couch, Cas covers them with the old plaid shirt. It smells like them both now, cheap detergent barely covering the lingering hints of gunpowder and engine grease, spunk and sweat. And like the first time he wore it, Dean’s filled with the knowledge that he’s finally, at long last, come home.


End file.
